On a wall of our house hangs an old telephone, a reminder of rural life around the middle of last century.
     Unlike today’s slim, two-ounce Nokia version of instant wireless communication, this big, bulky machine has a crank, a generator that sends out real shocks, two bells, an oak case, plastic mouth and ear pieces and cord as thick as a python.


     That is what rural Americans grew up with. The relic, passed on to my wife by her parents, kept people in touch, until the high-tech era of telephones — those with no buttons, no dial, only a receiver that when you pick it up, makes someone say, “Number, please.”
     But our phone is older than that. According to my father-in-law, Stanley Coppock, “All the folks along Springer tract used to be on the same line.” To reach someone, back in 1946, the caller needed to turn the crank to rouse the operator, who would hook them up.
     I have no recollection of that kind of phone in Las Vegas. The “second generation” phone described above was dependent on a nasal operator at a central location. But quite often, getting to an operator was hampered by a party line — and that was no party.
     Our number in about 1948, was 659-W. When someone wanted to reach us, three other phones on the party line rang. But what are the chances there’d be so few names shared by so many people?
     The “659″ prefix was the same for four Arthurs in a two-block area of Railroad Avenue. The suffixes were “J,” “M,” “R,” and “W.” There was me, Arthur Madrid, Arthur Byers and Arthur McElroy — all of us blessed with this wonderful name, but utterly confused when someone asked to speak to Arthur. “Well, you have a choice … there are four Arthurs on this party line,” one of us would invariably say.
     In non-emergency situations, I’m sure lots of us spent time listening in on others’ conversations. Whether it’s fact or fantasy, a sibling told me about trying to make a call, only to hear another “partyer” chatting about a song whose title escaped her.
     “You know, guy,” she would say, “it goes like this: Jackie and Johnny were lovers, oh boy how they could love . . .” My sibling, having bought that same 45 record the day before, put it on the phonograph and placed it close to our phone.
     “Ah, that’s it!” the Name-That-Tune contestant said. We still don’t know whether the parties realized it took a third party to solve the Jackie and Johnny love conundrum.
     Over the years things have changed. I belong to the old school that cherishes privacy and courtesy. In a few years, cell phone devotees will start walking with a twisted neck, a carryover from their youth when they cricked their neck to cradle a wireless phone. Remember, a crick in the neck leads to water in the brain.
     You see them everywhere: A young man chatting on his cell phone ran a stop sign on Lincoln, whipped around the corner, forcing a driver to stop, and drove off, eventually running a light turning red on Douglas, possibly oblivious to chaos in his wake.
     Another time, a woman chose the Waldenbooks store in Santa Fe to make her call. Given the volume she used, she didn’t need a phone at all. And her conversation was not a simple message to put the frijoles on the stove. She went into a discourse: “And the secondary effect of such an eventuality is the likelihood of …”
     What was she doing? Whom was she trying to impress? “Eventuality”? “Likelihood”? Was she delivering a bloomin’ college lecture from her cell phone? Was she hoping for a tenure dinner mint at Highlands University? The latest New York Times Magazine discusses the unwillingness of the rest of us members of the public to become part of the person’s conversation. I haven’t the least curiosity as to who’s making it with whom and find it embarrassing to be an aural participant, against my will, in the saga of “Marge Said She Was Home But I Know Better.”
     That lack of curiosity was probably instilled in me by the protestations of Sister Mary Medulla at Immaculate Conception School. She’d warn us that if we deliberately listened to someone’s confession in church, the likelihood of swift retribution was great. “And your chances are doubled if it happens around Easter.”
     Cell phones, now with photo and text capabilities, serve as an electronic umbilical cord, keeping people hooked up even when there’s no real message.
     Walk around any campus to observe people who don’t appear to have much to say except, “Oh — hi, Grandma! Fine, and you? Yeah, I’m in classŠ” Kids used to get punished when their new digital watches of the Œ80s let out a beep on the hour. That was a minor infraction compared to cell phones ringing and vibrating in class. Assuredly, schools now have rules about turning them off.
     A memorable line in a Verizon commercial is “Can you hear me now?” effective in touting the clarity and reach of the cell phone.
     However, sometimes, ironically, someone on a call is convinced that he has to shout and trumpet out details of his latest conquest. That comes too close to disrupting everybody else’s tranquility, and I imagine he’s asking the question of US, not of the person on the other end.
     Yes, Mr. Megaphone, we CAN hear you now.

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